“Oh. Well. There goes that scheme.” He glanced at the refined handwriting. Obviously this Maurice Watson was educated. He might have a pretty penny to his name. But if Beth had a bad feeling about him, particularly one prompted by magic, he might not be the easy answer to their predicament after all.
Merritt thought about the weeping cherries and whimbrels and Beth and Hulda . . . then opened a drawer and slipped the letter inside. “I suppose I’ve only just gotten here. I should see through the mystery with the”—he swallowed—“ghost.” He shrugged without even thinking to, the movement was so practiced.
A soft smile touched Hulda’s lips. Some of her features were severe, accentuated by the way she carried herself, but she was pretty when she smiled. “Excellent choice, Mr. Fernsby.”
He certainly hoped so.
The file BIKER had on Whimbrel House was indeed sparse—it listed Mr. Fernsby’s maternal grandmother, who’d won it from a Mr. Sutcliffe, who’d inherited it from his father, who’d taken the deed from his brother. That was it, and none of those listed on the deed had ever actually lived at Whimbrel House, or in Rhode Island, for that matter, and therefore none of them could be the house’s haunter. It seemed evident that the house had been built—and abandoned—in the early settling of the colonies, given the style and lack of documentation, then picked up again before the finalizing of US law. It was really quite a mess.
And so, in order to update the file and get the information Hulda needed on the wizard’s identity, the most obvious place to start the search was the library.
The library wasn’t large in the way of noble houses, but the side walls were stacked with shelves reaching floor to ceiling, most of them full, which made for a good deal of books. They were also vastly unorganized, thanks to the house’s habit of book throwing.
Hulda started on the far end of the south shelf, and Mr. Fernsby started on the close end of the north, and they proceeded with their search while Miss Taylor occupied herself in the kitchen. Hulda would contact BIKER as well, though if the history of the house wasn’t in the file Myra had initially given her, Hulda doubted the institution knew anything else.
“Search for journals, biographies, wedged newspapers,” Hulda murmured as she put one hardcover back and selected another, “anything of the like. Even a name printed on the inside cover.”
“The Anatomy of Galapagos Sea Turtles,” Mr. Fernsby read. “You don’t suppose our ghost is a turtle, do you?”
Hulda snorted. “He is a very intelligent turtle if so.” The book in her hands proved to be a receipt book with no helpful markings.
The next book was an old sketchbook used by an artist of little talent, only an eighth full at best. No names or dates, just birds, trees, and monsters. That was followed by Utopia by Thomas More and volume 3 of Shakespeare. Hulda wondered who the bookworm was who’d stocked these shelves, or if the collection had been built over time since the invention of the printing press. She highly doubted the spirit wizard was a reader, the way he treated these spines.
A book near her shoulder started to wiggle free on its own. Hulda shoved it back into place and said, “Not now. Do you want us to help you or not?”
Whether the wizard wanted to be parted from the house was another question entirely, but Hulda had yet to clarify her purpose where the being could hear. Regardless, the book stayed put.
Mr. Fernsby chuckled softly.
She glanced over the rim of her glasses, which made his edges fuzzy. “What?”
He flipped a page in the small book in his hand, closed it, and held it up. “Something called Hills of Heather. Looks to be an Irish romance.” He turned the book over in his hands. “My sister loved to read things like this.”
Mention of his sister sparked something uncomfortable in Hulda’s chest, like she’d swallowed the burr atop a long blade of grass. “Mr. Fernsby, if I may ask you a personal question.”
He met her eyes, but she didn’t utter a word until his head dipped in consent.
“Why did you live with Mr. Portendorfer? Are you . . . estranged from your family?”
“Oh. Ha.” He returned the book, moving his gaze squarely to the shelf in front of him. “We are that, yes. Family politics, really. You know. General nonsense.” He shifted for the door. “Say, where is Miss Taylor? I wanted her opinion on something. Be right back to do”—he waved his hand broadly—“this.”
And with that, he slipped into the hallway, evading the conversation entirely.